Here’s where we stand one month into 2017: a person who’s not fit to lead kindergarteners in a recital of the ABCs occupies the seat of the highest office in the United States of America. Don’t ask. My house was burgled. “Burgled.” Yeah. I met some amazing folks at a sci fi book convention. Win win. I’ve got a couple writing gigs lined up; recommitted myself to meditation; will try very hard not to muck up anyone’s life during the 11 months remaining. Not despairing, fretful, or panicked despite the sum total of heinous assery dirtying the world. This doesn’t mean I’m not affected. Doesn’t mean you’re not either. I’m thinking about living my life a completely different way. Love, home, work, play—everything. The old narratives serve the tiniest concerns. New way could make me worthy of my dreams. I still have those. Haven’t given up, not yet. Not ever. And that’s where we are one month into 2017. We’re not giving up.

​I think we’re so fixed on being constantly entertained because we’re always hungry for our dream state. What an odd species. Never truly awakened and, when asleep, never fully committed to the dream. Radio, television, movies, plays, books, commercials, galleries: all waking-dreams of sleep. It’s no surprise that every culture on this planet, from Aboriginal truths to Freud’s repressions, respects dreams. Dreams are where whatever’s inside us lives its best life as part of the All.

There was a short story I did some time ago that started off like this: When it gets dark like this all of me wait crouched for me, wait like thieves. If I bump into myself I’ll be replaced. Lying snugly in my bed I’m able to touch firm reality. Wrapped head to toe in a cocoon of warm covers comes the realization that I am alone. I am earth’s King and Brother.A sense of isolation drives me toward a sliver of light.I will pretend I had this dream.

One of my favorite songs, Change of Time by Josh Ritter, has this:I had a dream last nightAnd rusting far below meBattered hulls and broken hardshipsLeviathan and LonelyI was thirsty so I drankAnd though it was salt waterThere was something 'bout the wayIt tasted so familiar

There’s sadness in wanting to return to dreams. Imagine if every day you were ripped from your home, thrown into a strange world of functions and transactions, and told “Exist!” Every day some bit of the dream would cling to you as you navigated your half-life. No wonder there’s something about longing that tastes so familiar. No wonder they’re called “alarm” clocks. An alarm signals danger, yes? We’ve been trying to signal ourselves to the terror of this waking state for a long time.

There are also those who try to form underground railroads to the Dreaming. Think of a work by an artist that stayed with you on much more than an entertaining level. We all have them, moments of connection like jewel fragments peeking out of clay. Moments of art where we know a lot more about the nature of the universe than we think we do. Star Trek has Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations. I want to borrow that to add Infinite Dreams in Infinite Combinations, but dreams triggered by the remembrance of something familiar. Home. Eventually we’ll wind up back there. This waking world can only serve a purpose for so long. Until then, cherish the people who—often unwittingly—leave bread crumbs for you; a trail back to your own inherent glory.​Good morning to you, luvs, and here’s to your dreams of sleep.